Incognito
by NoOriginalityHereMoveAlong
Summary: Miranda/Andy. Based on mxrolkr's prompt 'What if Miranda blacklists Andy from her chosen field of publishing but Andy's writes a children's book under a nom de plume, which the twins happen to love? What happens when Miranda finds out'
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to Devil Wears Prada. These belong to others, as do many other very fun things. I borrow them for my own entertainment (though perhaps not the entertainment of others!

**Author's Note: **This is for **mxrollkr** - thank you for your excellent prompt. I used its structure as my basis but added in a liberal dollop of my own twists! For those reading **allielivvy**'s version, I have ensured our storylines are rather sufficiently different...

* * *

**2007**

**New York****Priestly Townhouse**

* * *

"Wow." More than the unusually deferential tone was the surprisingly reverent manner in which Caroline closed the book, her hand automatically smoothing the hardback cover.

"I know." Cassidy ran her fingertips across the brightly coloured picture on the front of her copy, unlike Caroline having chosen not to remove the sleeve.

"So is it just me or...?"

"Nope." Pointing to the flame red hair of the depicted characters, Cassidy confirmed, "It's like the guy that wrote this practically knows us."

"Do you think he's someone Mum has met?" Caroline clicked the bookmarked webpage on her iMac, sighing as the photo of the handsome, curly-haired, young man whose face was stretched into a lopsided grin popped up almost immediately.

"Wasn't he like a chef before he wrote this? And not a very successful one either. When exactly would she have met him?"

"Yeah, but he is famous _now_."

"Mum doesn't know everyone famous, you know." Giggling, Cassidy threw a pillow at Caroline's head, her sister catching it in mid-air and throwing it right back.

"Well, looks like the book signing is still on. We all set?"

"Doctor's note—check, cash—check, books—check. We are good to go."

"This is going to be the best thing since Harry Potter," Caroline grinned.

Clutching the newly returned pillow to her chest, Cassidy opened the book to the inscription, flopping backwards with a sigh. "It's so romantic though… that he refuses to tell anyone who the mystery woman is. And everyone wants to know. I mean, seriously, he's been asked like a thousand times."

"Maybe it's just that the right person hasn't asked," Caroline sighed dreamily into the distance.

Unable to resist good-natured teasing, especially when her sister was wearing that moon-eyed expression, Cassidy laughed, "Yeah. Maybe if _you_ ask tomorrow, he'll tell you it's for his mother or something and that you're the girl he's been waiting for all his life…"

"Oh shut up." Launching herself onto the bed, Caroline grabbed for her sister's weak spots, mercilessly tickling her under the ribs and knees.

"Parlay! Parlay!"

"God, aren't you over your _Pirates_ phase yet?"

Sticking out her tongue, Cassidy mimicked, "God, aren't you over your _Nate_ phase yet?"

After several more moments of playful squirming, Caroline announced, "Truce?"

"Truce."

Flopping down beside her sister, she stared at her in contemplation. "You know what's weird though…"

"What?"

"I mean, if the book is really based on _us_ then the queen is…"

"None other than Miranda Priestly?"

"Yeah." Losing her smirk, Caroline added bitterly, "He's not really met her then, has he? Or he wouldn't have written her like that." Picking at a non-existent thread in the bedspread, she stared off to the side, her jaw firming. "I hate them, you know. Page Six… Celebs Now… all the other trashy columns…"

"Well, you know it's not really about us, right? The book, I mean. But it's a super thought." Stilling Caroline's plucking fingers with her own, Cassidy assuaged her unspoken worries with a gentle squeeze and a quiet, "She will find someone again, I bet you anything. Someone who sees her exactly the way he does."

* * *

**The Plaza Hotel**

Measuring the length of his hotel room with a nervous pace, Nate wondered why he wasn't feeling better given that up until a few months ago he wouldn't have even entertained the thought of eating at The Plaza, never mind envisaged a week's stay in its luxurious penthouse suite. Rocking backwards on his heels as he came to a standstill in front of the full length mirror, he mouthed, "Come on, Nate. Come on. It's just a book signing. You can do this. You CAN do this."

"You'd bloody well better do this." The almost soundless snick of the hotel room lock was lost in the nasal whine of his hired publicist. "You take the rough with the smooth, kid. You want to be dining at The Lion, you need to do the dirty work too."

"What if I mess it up?" Even saying it out loud sent a bead of sweat trickling down Nate's already clammy back.

"Relax. It isn't the Spanish Inquisition. It's just a bunch of kids and housewives looking to buy whatever crap you're trying to sell them. Remember, the hard part is already in the bag."

"Yeah, well, you obviously didn't know Andy when she was a kid. Or her mother," Nate muttered darkly.

"Look," crossing over to stand in front of him, Steve smoothed his hands over the lapels of Nate's brand-new charcoal Gucci, "she's prepped you how many times? I've been over the same stuff every day since the book launch. You got this, you know it inside out. And they love you. You are the clean-cut, as-American-as-apple-pie, boy-done-good. What's there to worry about?"

"I know." Blowing out a breath, Nate stood a little straighter. "It's just—it feels wrong. I didn't do anything, Steve, that's the thing. It shouldn't be me standing here, it should be her."

"This is how she wants it, Nate. Just concentrate on the adoring audience out there. Oh yeah, and the big bucks Skein & Wright are raking in. They signed three more authors this week. The publishing house is happy, _they_ are happy," Steve indicated in the vague direction of the sidewalk several stories below. "And she's happy too, so…" Leaving the rest unspoken, he finished with a thumping shoulder pat which nearly forced Nate to stumble sideways. By the time he'd righted himself, Steve was already at his customary place—right next to the crystal decanter of Scotch sitting on the bar.

"She isn't happy though, is she?" Nate muttered, mostly to himself.

"You a psychic now?" Barely raising a carefully styled eyebrow cemented in place by a recent injection of Botox, Steve downed two fingers of amber liquid in one gulp.

"Don't have to be. You'd know too if you'd spent the last twenty years being her friend. Or if you'd actually bothered to get to know her… at all."

"I represent the author of _The Magic of Vespia_. As far as the general public is aware, that's you, Nate Cooper. Unless you are ready to announce otherwise – and for everybody's sake, you'd better not be – as far as I am concerned, Andy Sachs doesn't even exist."

* * *

**The Offices of Runway Magazine**

"Have you seen this abomination?" Unceremoniously flinging down a newspaper on top of Nigel's layout, Emily stared at him, head slightly cocked, foot tapping impatiently at the too leisurely rise from his bent stance over the table.

"Yes, Emily. To us in the hallowed circles this is known as printed press. Incredibly, this _archaic_ method of communication has been around for some time. You might want to look it up if you'd like to make some sort of progress in your chosen field." Having delivered his offhand response, Nigel slid the paper to the side, bending down once more to examine the minor imperfections in the spread out photographs.

Heaving a theatrical sigh, Emily drawled, "I see, as usual, it falls to me to do all the work around here. I am specifically referring to this." Shoving the article directly under Nigel's nose, she pointed to a picture of a man.

"The last time I checked, I wasn't looking for a date. And if you honestly think that Miranda would use him as a model, I would suggest you increase your daily intake of cheese to at least, oh let's say, three cubes."

"Nate Cooper." Blithely ignoring Nigel's insults, Emily carried on as if he hadn't spoken. "Do you even know who he is?"

"Should I?"

"My God, she only prattled on about him every other day!"

"She?"

"Andy!"

"Who?"

"Oh you know very well who."

"Yes. But unlike you, I _like_ my job."

"Miranda won't be in until at least 11. You know that just as well as I do."

"Fine. So The Infamous One That Got Away had a boyfriend. And the boyfriend," glancing down Nigel disdainfully pursed his lips in a perfect imitation of his boss, "appears to have written a children's book. How… common. Now I should care because…?"

"Because _he _wrote the book."

"Is there an alternate method of producing literature that I am not privy to?"

"He was a struggling chef, for God's sakes. I met him once—and yes, once was bloody well enough! Cute? If you like the scruffy type. Charming? Well, you Americans do set the bar so low. But articulate? Write a book articulate? Not a hope in hell."

Gaze sharpening behind the horn-rimmed glasses, Nigel glanced up, examining Emily with the same thoroughness afforded to the layout. "Tell me that you are not suggesting what I think you are."

"If you remember, only one of them aspired to be a writer."

"Well, that would certainly be a novel way to circumvent Miranda's wrath… But you are certain how?"

Whipping out the tome from behind her back, Emily flipped it open to the beginning, reading out loud, "_For the woman who altered my life. Thank you for the glimpse into your world." _Snapping it shut with both hands, she spat out shrilly, "What are we going to do?"

"Well, I don't know about you but I have to touch up the Testino shoot, the November layout is a mess, and then there's the teensy matter of the upcoming December issue. And even if I had nothing on my plate other than a bag of Cheetos and a season of America's Next Top Model, I would still do exactly the same thing as I am planning to do right now - precisely zip."

"What if Miranda finds out?"

"Finds out what? What you have is conjecture… at a stretch. For all you know, Six's spent the last year in Hawaii getting her brains screwed out by a hula girl in a grass skirt. Or it could be that he," Nigel smacked a finger smack dab in the middle of Nate's forehead, "is a lot more talented than you give him credit for. But," he paused, "let us imagine for a second that you are, indeed, in possession of actual facts. Are _you _volunteering to tell her?"

At Emily's horrified squeak, Nigel chuckled for the first time that morning. "You've ably made my point, English. Knowledge is power, but ignorance, and more importantly being able to claim such to Miranda, is bliss. As far as we are concerned," unceremoniously tossing the paper into the nearest wastepaper basket, Nigel rapped the cover of the book with the butt end of his pencil, "Andy Sachs left _Runway_ more than a year ago. These days - she's just another nobody that failed to make her mark."

* * *

**Beauty Salon **

"Sarah, Sarah!"

Staring at the child eagerly bouncing up and down two seats away as she impatiently tugged at the sleeve of the woman more than likely to be her nanny, Miranda was simultaneously overwhelmed by fond memories of the twins at that age and a flash of murderous rage that this child was compounding her already thumping headache. She truly hoped Galina was on her game today. A headache as early as 9:30 on a Monday morning did not bode well either for _Runway_ or the population of New York.

"And then they ride dragons and one is orange and the other purple and each one of them is exactly like the twins so that they can understand them without them even needing to speak out loud and then there's this magic force field and they have to…

Trying to hush the continually babbling child, the nanny fearfully glanced at Miranda's stony face, attempting to placate her with a rueful, "Um, it's this new book, Ms Priestly. She's just crazy about it, can't get enough. I sure hope the author plans to write another one real soon because I don't know how long she's going to hold out for the sequel."

Glancing down in disdain, Miranda caught sight of the vaguely familiar gaudy cover. Remembering how engrossed the twins had been in their copies for the entire week that it had taken them to finish it, she almost allowed the girl to escape unscathed. "What is your name?"

Seeing the nanny blanch and stutter proved ample entertainment until the receptionist hastily intervened with, "Ms Semyonova will see you now, Ms Priestly."

"Hmm…" throwing one last glare at the still prattling child, Miranda strolled through to the inner sanctum of _Beauty_, disrobing quickly and efficiently; on the table precisely five minutes later.

"I see you are in a rush today, Miranda." The acupuncturist leisurely lined up the necessary oils and equipment.

"And yet, as always, you are not." Two sets of lips curved slightly upwards at the customary joke, the women having established a shared hate of incompetence on Miranda's second visit.

Despite her aversion of talking to the 'hired help', Miranda had found herself gravitating to this warm, middle-aged woman and her easy camaraderie, secure in the knowledge that anything mentioned in the confines of the room would never leave these walls. She'd tested Galina personally right at the start of their relationship, dropping several juicy titbits to see if they would mysteriously materialise in the gossip columns in the days that followed. She'd dropped the pretence after several visits when, in the middle of recounting an amusing story of a paramour's dropped trousers, Galina had simply laughed, flashing a dimpled smile. "When you get tired of playing your game, just let me know, alright? Until them, hell, you can make up a harem of lovers for all I care. But make the lies a little more interesting— you, of all people, must know my client list—your imagination falls woefully short of what goes on in their reality."

Since that day Miranda had found herself sharing thoughts and feelings that she had rarely ever shared with anyone else. She wasn't a fool, if word got out about the things discussed it would be embarrassing but hardly devastating. After all, what woman didn't question her actions once or twice upon a time? But always in the back of her mind were wariness, unease, and the unsettling knowledge that there was only one reason that she had felt this sudden desire to _connect_ at all.

Andrea Sachs.

The girl who'd dared to challenge her, who'd told her right from the start that she was different—and proved that by walking away without a backward glance. Having been blacklisted from every publication, she should have simply vanished from Miranda's life just like the long procession of all the other Emilys that'd come and gone. But to Miranda's astonishment and dismay, the brunette had continued to stubbornly cling to the edges of her mind, flitting through her thoughts at the oddest times.

At first the passing reminders had been somewhat pleasant, if more than bittersweet. The girl had chosen to take the path Miranda hadn't travelled, each of her _visits_ a niggling reminder of the layers of conscience she, herself, had shed with every upward step. Any residual pleasure had very quickly turned to irritation, then simply outright anger. How dare the girl refuse to leave entirely when she'd so ably removed her actual presence? She was nothing, not worth the precious space being wasted by her spectre. There were far more important things take into consideration: colours, patterns, trends, botched messes that her staff presented as the latest layout. _Those_ were her life, her guide, the scruples that she'd chosen.

And in the girl's own words, it was no place for Andrea Sachs.


	2. Chapter 1

"As you grow older, I hope you'll start to understand why I have always valued justice over mercy." – Queen Alarice of Vespia, '_The Seas of Aquallon'_

* * *

**2008 **

**Priestly Townhouse**

"Caroline, what time of the evening do you call—?" Unceremoniously barged out of the way, Miranda watched incredulously as her oldest daughter (if only by a couple of minutes), stormed past her, rushing up the stairs as if the hounds of hell themselves were on her heels. Trudging behind her at a snail's pace, Cassidy did not escape Miranda's indignant scrutiny, nor did she seem to want to, closing the front door with a resounding click. Heart squeezing as she noticed the droop to the shoulders, followed by the mute apology transmitted by a set of red-rimmed eyes when Cassidy at last deigned to turn around, Miranda fluidly adjusted from attack to defence, ferocity of a different kind rising up within her. "What happened, bobbsey?"

"It's nothing."

"Well, obviously not. Why don't you let me make you a cup of cocoa and we can talk?" Softening her voice, Miranda tentatively put her arm around her youngest, warily watching for any signs of resistance. When she felt the slender body lean in, albeit ever so slightly, she thanked whatever deity was watching over her that at least one of her teenage daughters still thought her mother capable of solving their problems.

Guiding Cassidy through to the breakfast nook, she set about quickly and efficiently pulling the remedy together, but despite the maternal instincts which increased her speed, when she turned, drinks in hand, it was only to encounter fresh tears seeping out from under Cassidy's thick lashes.

"Sorry." Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the Dalton sweatshirt, Cassidy reached for the cocoa, suppressing a cross between a sob and sigh as she cupped its welcome heat. "You remembered the mini marshmallows..."

"Would I ever forget?"

"I guess we forget more than you do."

"Hmm, that tends to be a folly of youth, you'll learn. Now about earlier...?" Gently, yet firmly, Miranda broached the purpose of the tète a tète.

"It's stupid. Just something that happened in school."

"Something that kept you out till eight o'clock?"

"Well, there's this boy in our class…"

Trying not to visibly expel a sigh of relief, Miranda allowed her body to settle into the stool, taking a sip of the luxurious, and yet apparently needless, calories.

"He said some stuff…"

Familiar schoolyard taunts ran through Miranda's head, as fresh as if the words had been spat into her face just yesterday. She drifted for an instant, thinking of the counsel her own mother would have given her had she actually taken the time to get sober which, of course, had been only one of the _minor_ obstacles to her dispensing any sort of valuable advice. Then again, where would she be without the drive and determination that those years had instilled in her? Where—

"…cold-hearted bitch and that's why we don't have a father. He said we should just get used to not having a two parent family because no man is ever going to give a shit about defrosting your ice shield, not even if you don't sign a pre..." Cassidy faltered for a moment, chewing on the sugary treat thoughtfully, "...nuptial agreement." Gaze dropping to stare into her cocoa, she muttered, "I hate that word. I hate even more that I know exactly what it means."

A myriad of thoughts darted through Miranda's mind, the most pressing one being how to get the key piece of information that she required, without tipping her hand. "Well, bobbsey, people say a lot of things. He could be projecting - perhaps his parents are going through a divorce? Or maybe - you remember the chat we had about boys your age and how they struggle to express themselves. Granted, this does seem a little extreme, but is it possible he simply likes you?"

"No, it wasn't like that. You should have seen him - he was just being mean because he knew he'd get to us. And then Caroline told him to take it back and he started taunting her that she was going to grow up to be exactly like you and that… she should just get like a thousand cats right now and save herself the trouble."

"Well," taking a deep breath, Miranda tried to clear a veil of red mist rapidly descending over her vision, "a _better_ person takes the high road. Did Caroline taunt him back?"

"No," protesting so vigorously that a length of auburn curls shook loose from the already precarious ponytail, Cassidy confirmed, "she wouldn't stoop to that. Just like you've always taught us. She said that he was ignorant if he really believed what he was saying. And then we both walked away."

"Good. I am very proud of you." Reaching over, Miranda squeezed her daughter's hand, sadness momentarily stealing over her anger. It seemed just yesterday that she had held their tiny chubby bodies for the first time and swore to protect them from everything that would ever do them harm. Thirteen years had flown by in an instant, and now - well, now the time for them to stand on their own feet approached at a breakneck pace. But… not quite yet. "Tomorrow, you and Caroline will find this…?"

"Jeremy," the trap neatly sprung shut over her daughter's head.

"Yes… Jeremy." A trickle of triumph at Cassidy's intent, unsuspecting gaze flowed through Miranda. "Well, you tell him that his parents should teach him to be more careful about picking his battles because one day someone less _honourable_ than you might not hold back. Will you do that for me, bobbsey?"

"Yes, Mum." Slurping the last of the cocoa, Cassidy jumped off the stool, dutifully walking over to place her mug in the sink, an instant later launching herself at Miranda with a python's grip. "I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart." Miranda clutched back, bending down to place a kiss on the messy mop of hair.

"I don't think it would be so bad to be you," her daughter's moist breath tickled her ear.

"Well, let's hope you still think that when you're all grown up." Tapping a freckled nose, Miranda asked conspiratorially, "Now, do you think a cup of cocoa will similarly cure your sister's ills?"

"No." Rolling her eyes, Cassidy reverted back to more familiar sibling mockery. "She's decided to take drama next year and I think she's started practicing already!"

"Well," diplomatically swallowing a smile, Miranda drawled, "perhaps if I bring it up in half an hour?"

"Okay." Grabbing her backpack, Cassidy flew out of the kitchen, throwing, "Thanks, Mum!" over her shoulder.

Any hint of affection bleeding out the instant that the flash of red disappeared around the corner, she reached for her cell phone, less than two seconds later greeted with a crisp, "Yes, Miranda?"

"Emily, get me everything there is on a boy called Jeremy. He attends Dalton with the twins. Have it emailed to me in fifteen minutes."

"On it's way to you in two, Miranda. The name is," there was a short pause and a furious clacking of the keys, "Northam. Jeremy Northam."

"The mind-reading skills are certainly a welcome addition to your meagre repertoire."

"We've kept a record of everyone in their class. Have done since kindergarten." The tinge of haughtiness was poorly disguised.

"Well…" impressed with her assistants' rare moment of anticipation, Miranda simply ended the call. In the time it took to add her barely touched drink to Cassidy's empty cup, and rinse them both, a melodious ping brooked the stillness of the kitchen, faithfully confirming the arrival of the requested information.

The act of flicking the email open and scanning its contents curved Miranda's lips in a bitter smirk. Of course—nothing worthwhile was ever cheap or simple.

That always went double for revenge.

Hitting the speed dial for a frequent contact, she jammed the offending Blackberry between her shoulder and ear, methodically preparing another cup of cocoa, this one with just a hint more chocolate and marshmallows than the one she'd made for her somewhat less headstrong child. Between the droning bleeps, she just had long enough to ponder the bitter irony of the fact that while Caroline continued to frustrate everyone around her, her ways would see her get far more, both from her mother and the world, than the placating Cassidy would ever see from her kind-hearted, gentle methods.

"Miranda, it's after eight. I know that you happen to believe—"

"John, this will take five minutes. How much of my assets can you liquidate on Monday?"

"I—hang on—what? Miranda, what the hell is going on?" Her financial advisor's irritated tone was tinged with both bewilderment and anger.

"I need a favour. But first I need to know that I can write a banker's draft on Monday, upwards of six figures if necessary."

"Of course. But it's going to cost you. Handsomely. May I enquire as to the hurry? If you give me a few days…"

"I don't have a few days. And the hurry is about to become patently clear. Now, do you remember the charming Thai man at your beach house last year...?"

After a minute's silence, the peevish changed to curt. "What do you want, Miranda?"

"So many things. But in this instant—I'll settle for Theodore Northam's head on a silver platter."

"Why? You don't move in his circles."

"The reason is of no consequence to you. What matters is a single name."

"Miranda..."

"Don't. We both know that I can destroy your reputation with one call."

"Do ten years of business count for nothing?"

"Yes. I will be sure to tell the partners that I take no pleasure in your downfall. And John—I _will_ mean that—but it won't stop me."

An even longer silence was followed by a loaded exhalation. "This can't get back to me, Miranda, do you understand?"

"As clear as crystal. You are not my only source, just simply one that's most convenient."

"And the beach house matter…?"

"What matter?"

"Anna Wintour."

Her patience extended to hearing the dial tone before she let out an uncustomary curse. Leaning over the counter, she took several deep breaths, phone drumming against the granite. There were favours and there were _favours_. Certain people slipped up just once a lifetime, or to be more accurate, were caught by others only once. To play her trump card now… for this… But then again, how many more times would she get to be the white knight riding to the rescue? How soon before her children didn't need her anymore? As if of their own volition, her fingers danced through her contacts, the eventually selected number rigorously updated by her assistants but unused for nearly three years. Her thumb hovered over the 'call' button, the other hand questioningly tapping out a halting rhythm on the counter top.

The sudden piercing squeal startled her, thumb automatically pressing down before her brain had even processed the caller's name. By the time she raised the phone to within hearing distance, all she could make out was a tail-end of a hissed instruction, "... that drink now. Oh and offer to read _The Seas of Aquallon_. We still love it when you read to us and it's her favourite right now. Okay, bye!"

Making a note to remind Cassidy that being upset was no excuse to use a cell phone instead of coming down to speak to her, Miranda made a split second decision, a pristinely manicured digit bringing up the previously displayed contact, this time showing no hesitancy in pressing the necessary button. Either through courtesy or curiosity, perhaps a mixture of both, the phone was answered almost instantly. "Miranda Priestly, how lovely to hear from you. I thought I felt the house get a little… chilly."

"Anna." Clenching her jaw till her teeth were almost audibly grinding together, Miranda reminded herself that the end always justified the means. "How are you this evening?"

"Oh cut the crap, darling. If I believed all I needed to receive a 'how do you do' from the great Miranda Priestly was to land in the hospital with a silly stomach bug, I would be inundated by your calls."

"All recovered then. I'd hate to be accused of trumping you when you aren't at your best."

"Darling, the day that either one of us concedes we lost because we had an off-day, will be a day that neither of us are in charge of our current publications."

"Sometimes I forget why it is that I am supposed to hate you. You can be so damned amusing when you want to."

"You should see me in the boardroom. Alas, let us dispense with kid gloves... to what do I really owe the pleasure of this call?"

"I need a favour."

"A favour? Well, this must really be a matter of life and death. May I assume that you are finally ready to rid yourself of the unwelcome snake in _Runway_'s Garden of Eden?"

"Unfortunately, I need the snake as much as he believes he doesn't need me. No, this is a… private matter."

"Don't tell me someone has finally caught you, how shall I put it, _in flagrante_?"

"No, those kinds of activities I leave to you." Without preamble, Miranda launched into the thick of things, aware that if anyone were to catch an undercurrent's drift, it would be the only woman she considered her equal. "Theodore Northam."

"Small fry. Not enough to wager what you have on me."

"I haven't even begun…"

"And I don't need to hear the rest. Perhaps it's foolish of me to aid you in whichever morbid quest you've chosen to undertake, but if I am to ensure anyone's survival, it would be yours. We are both smart enough to know we sink or swim together."

"Nevertheless, I am cashing in my chips. By the time trading begins on Monday morning, I want him to be a smeared stain simply waiting to be wiped away."

"There are penalties."

"You'll have a banker's draft on Monday. Call his partners tonight and let me know your price."

"What could he possibly have done?"

"He made the girls cry." Miranda felt a moment's shame that her own eyes prickled at this admission of failure.

"I see. Well… it must be that time of the year for a charitable donation. I'll write off as much as I can—the rest I will expect in full on Monday afternoon."

"You have my word."

"That of Miranda Priestly or a mother?"

"Which one means more?"

Anna's hollow laugh echoed Miranda's vulnerabilities. "If I was to let it, I'd find it unbearably depressing that the very things which would portray us both as more _human_ are the very things which we are fighting tooth and nail to conceal."

"A mother's lot in life; it's not a lot… but it's a life."

"And their lives will always matter more."

"We wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise."

"Why _is_ it that we don't converse more often? Tell me, who have you earmarked for your December cover?"

Softly chuckling, Miranda admonished, "Goodbye, Anna. I am sure that we'll speak again. Meanwhile… thank you."

Ending the call, she stood stock still, immersed in contemplation; thinking again, as she'd been doing so often recently, of what it really meant when those who could most empathise with you were the wolves that bayed outside your door. Trying to physically shake the distasteful thoughts away, she reached for the phone one last time. "Emily," barely hiding her overwhelming weariness, she bit out, "find a way to anonymously contact every newspaper that's ever owed Elias Clarke and circulate a rumour that Peterson, Smith & Northam are about to be investigated for financial mismanagement and that their biggest client is going to walk tonight. And when Theodore Northam calls, no matter what, let his calls go through to voicemail. When he begs, and he will, agree to an appointment on Monday morning, 7:30 sharp."

"Of course, Miranda, I'll see you at 7:30."

A jarring silence hit, Emily awaiting more instructions, Miranda waiting for—well—for the question that had only ever rung true more than two years ago, from the one person that still menacingly lurked in the dusty, murky corners of her mind. The rebuke and consternation emanating from that imaginary voice spurred Miranda on, she snapping, "_I _will be in at 9.30. Make sure Northam doesn't leave. That's all."


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** I know this is a lengthy build-up, however, hopefully the pay-off will be worth it. Miranda twigs onto things very shortly but we will not see Andy till Chapter 5 (if everything works out). So yeah-this one is going to be a few chapters long...

* * *

"**When you cast a pebble into a pond, look beyond the first ripple**." - Magistrate Velia of Aquallon, _'The Forests of Moleris'_

* * *

**Late 2009 **

**Albany, New York**

"Mr Banks, do you have a moment?"

Steeling himself for the inevitable confrontation that he had no inclination or energy for, Doug stopped mid-stride, shuffling in a clumsy u-turn. "Dr Stevens." Acknowledging the middle-aged woman with a curt nod, he queried edgily, "What can I do for you?"

"In to see your mother?" The penetrating stare scanned Doug from the tips of his slightly scuffed shoes to the ruffled fringe, almond eyes narrowing at the tail end of the examination.

"Yes. Is that a crime?" Inwardly cringing at his own frosty tone, Doug made an effort to soften his stance.

"No, of course not. But bouncing cheques—that's another matter entirely."

Swiping his chapped, dry lips with a flick of a tongue, Doug tried to bluff, "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Oh, I think you do. You've always been a terrible liar, Douglas. I've never needed childhood stories to confirm that. Now tell me—creases in an ill-fitting suit that's seen much better days, a haircut that's just lopsided enough that I know it wasn't done professionally, the fact that you've lost, I am guessing, near enough twenty pounds—and now this?" Laura Stevens extracted a crisply folded sheet from within her coat pocket. "So… when exactly did you lose your job?"

A burning wave of humiliation washed over him that even here, where people only saw him a couple of times a month, he couldn't pull off the air of success. No wonder he'd only managed to line up one interview in the last six weeks. It was bad enough that his résumé set off warning bells for half of New York City but even when he was lucky enough to get his foot in the door, well, apparently his presentation took care of the rest. "I—I…"

"Let me buy you a cup of coffee and we can talk. There's a Starbucks a couple of doors down." As if reading his indecision, she added softly but firmly, "This won't go away, Douglas, no matter how much you want it to. In another month your mother is going to lose her place here at St Margaret's and then… can you take care of her by yourself? Do you even know how?"

Gaze lowering to prod at an unevenly bitten fingernail, Doug didn't even bother with an answer.

"That's what I thought. Come on."

Mentally running though a dozen carefully prepared lies took care of the short walk to the coffee shop. His first moment of awareness became a hot mug thrust in his general direction, a gentle shove pushing him down into a seat. "How did you know?" Doug stared at the foamy latte in surprise.

"You've been coming to visit your mother for seven years. And earlier, back when she was a little better, she talked about you. A lot."

An involuntary smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, she does go on a bit. Sorry."

"She's a lovely woman, Doug. And you are a good son. But you can't take care of her if you can't even take care of yourself. So tell me… how long has it been?"

Pride and accountability hunching his shoulders, the carefully concocted story effortlessly sprung to his lips. Raising his gaze to the expectant one which regarded him with a wealth of patience, he opened his mouth, blurting out a totally unplanned, "Eightmonths." Having fought for freedom for so long, the truth sailed out in one long exhalation, bringing with it an overwhelming lightness that he hadn't expected to feel.

"Eight months? Why didn't you let us know sooner? We have programs, plans… we could have worked out some sort of—"

"I couldn't. I just—if I told anyone, it'd be like… I mean if I never said it out loud then maybe…" A warm palm covered his death grip on the mug, the comforting touch breaking through the leftover barrier of resistance. "I kept thinking that I'd get the next one, then the one after, then… It wasn't till three months ago that someone was kind enough to sit me down and just tell me flat out that I am not going to get hired again for a while, not with _that_ on my résumé. So I started applying for any odd job that I could find but in this climate… Hell, I am a fucking graduate who is getting turned down to stack shelves in a store! It's just…" chest heaving, Doug turned away, unwilling to let a near stranger see the film of tears.

"What is it that makes you such a leper, Doug? Your flaws are certainly well hidden."

"Peterson, Smith & Northam."

"I see."

In the ensuing weight of silence, Doug reached for a sip of the latte, his taste buds revelling in the now almost forgotten smoothness of flavour.

"Well, that whole incident was hardly Enron."

"You live in a different world and youknow about it, don't you? It was in the papers for weeks. People have long memories. Especially right now."

"If my memory serves me right, the allegations were unproven."

"Doesn't matter. There's no smoke without fire, that's what people kept saying." Turning to face her again, Doug spat out bitterly, "By the time the dust settled, the whole place was just… gone. I was only a research analyst—it's not like I was even anywhere near the big decisions. But do you think that anyone cares about the truth - the actual details? No. I've learned _that_ the hard way."

"So you've been paying all the bills yourself?"

"I had investments. Savings. I made them last as long as I could. But now…"

"Now finally the well is dry."

"Technically, it dried up a month ago."

"And there's no-one else? No family? Friends?"

A brief memory of carefree laughter at a local restaurant flashed through his mind, too hazy for anything other than a fleeting burst of fondness. Shaking it off, Doug smiled, "My friend Lily helps me out where she can. You know, invites me to art showings and stuff—that's practically a free meal sometimes. But she runs an art gallery, not exactly the world's most profitable job. My other friends," he paused to swallow the bitterness bubbling in his throat, "I guess as you grow older you tend to drift apart."

"Well, then." Assuming a brusque, business-like tone once more, Laura Stevens pulled out a pen and notepad, scribbling furiously as she started to talk. "I have good and bad news. The good news is – I hope you excel at emptying bed pans. The bad news is – we won't be able to get you to start for at least a month. Meanwhile, perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement. I have a sick cat and I hate that she's alone the whole day. Maybe I can pay you to—"

"I can't… I am sorry." Shooting up, Doug barely remembered his manners, mumbling, "Thank you, though. I'll take the job. Here's my number. Call me when you want for me to start." Throwing his last wrinkled business card down on the table, he spun away, only to find his progress halted by a vice grip round his wrist.

"What are you going to do till then, Doug? Isn't she worth more than your pride? Look - most of us are in a tough place once a lifetime. You are still young, you'll bounce back. She doesn't have that luxury. Think about that."

A dozen retorts ran through his head just as his gaze caught a familiar sight in the crumpled, abandoned newspaper. 'Move over Harry Potter, there's another wizard in town!' blazed the headline, a grinning Nate, arm in arm with a slender redhead, exiting some exclusive New York restaurant. Recoiling stiffly, Doug breathed a sigh and closed his eyes, trying to fight back a score of different emotions. Gently tugging free, he felt the leathery, paper-thin skin slide through his fingers, the tips of his own lingering for just a second longer than what would have been deemed appropriate, before he finished dispassionately, "Thank you, Dr Stevens, I'll see what I can do. I promise."

* * *

**The Plaza Hotel, New York**

Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Nate gingerly felt his way to the bathroom, resting his forehead on the tile as he reached his destination. Twisting the tap, he plunged his head under the cold water, almost groaning in relief as the pounding in his temples momentarily abated. Before he could enjoy the respite, the pounding resumed again, Nate taking so long to distinguish between the imaginary and real that when it ceased again, he didn't give it a moment's thought.

"Jesus H. Christ—what the fuck did _you_ get up to last night?"

Blindly waving a dismissive hand in his publicist's general direction, Nate turned the tap on full force.

"Come on, up we get, sunshine!"

Thrust out of the blessed coolness, Nate moaned as the jackhammers resumed their rhythmic beat, mewling pitifully in frustration.

"You really need to learn how to hold your liquor."

"Din' drink…" The minimal movement of his jaw only served to increase the hammering in his head.

"Well, you could've bloody well fooled me. You look like _Voodoo_ chewed you up and spat you out."

"Bed."

"Don't even think about it. The paps are waiting at The Lion for you tonight so call Vanessa and let's get this show on the road."

"Can't."

"Not a word which you are entitled to, my boy. You're here for a week, and I want them to see you out every night, looking as if the sun shines out of your ass. I've heard that Nolan, Del Toro and Leighton are sniffing around. We are thisclose to an all out war between Warner and Century for the rights. A fucking hangover isn't going to blow that deal. Not now, not ever."

"I can't, man. Look at me!" Nate vaguely gestured up and down, hand shuddering in the process.

"I've got just the thing." Leaning him against the wall, Steve dug into his jacket pocket, bringing out a bottle of pills.

"What the hell—no fucking way!" Alarmed, Nate desperately tried to clear his bleary vision, stumbling backwards from the outstretched hand.

"Do I look a goddamned drug dealer to you? These are just going to clear your head – give you a little buzz, a little pep. I need you to look like a human being, Nate, not some shit on the sole of someone's shoe."

"No-one's even gonna care about me. Look, I'll do this thing tomorrow, alright? Just let me get some sleep. I'll dazzle them at the book signing and then Vanessa and I will go wherever the hell you want. I've got something special planned - trust me, it's gonna make the whole week a slam dunk."

"What exactly—" An angry buzzing rippled the front of Steve's shirt. Holding up a finger to his lips, he extracted the cell phone, a slight tightening of his forehead indicating his displeasure. "Steve Brooks speaking… Uhuh… Uhuh… Yeah… Hold on a second…" Slamming a hand over the phone, he mouthed, "Who the bloody hell is Doug?"

"Doug? I don't know, let me think." Trying to concentrate, Nate massaged his temples, the vacuum of pain making it practically impossible to remember his own name, never mind anybody else's. Was Doug the guy that used to date Vanessa's sister? Or was he the valet that Nate occasionally went drinking with when he wanted a little slice of home away from home? Everyone's faces blurring together the more he thought about it, he finally gave up, muttering, "I really don't know. Just take a message, will you?" Snatching the bottle from Steve's hand, he stumbled through to the kitchen, helplessly vomiting in the sink in the process of trying to unscrew it. Inhaling two pills without chewing, he mashed a number with a shaky hand, "Hey, babe. Yeah, sorry, looks like tonight is back on." Wincing at the excited tone on the other end of the phone, he rubbed his temples a little harder, willing himself to focus on the only good part of this whole godforsaken charade.

* * *

**Albany, New York**

"Yes, of course. I understand. Please let him know I called." Lowering the phone, Doug rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fist, the action only seeming to fuel his anger further. Before he could fully think through his actions, his arm was in motion, the phone shattering against the wall.

"Well, quite the arm you got there, young man. Maybe the Yankees got themselves a new pitcher."

A blush of mortification and cooling anger heating his neck, Doug stammered out, "I—I am so sorry. Shit. I didn't mean to scare you. I am not normally like this, I swear." Gathering his courage and readying a further apology, he turned around, coming face to face with an old man whose sallow skin hung from his jowls. Trembling, vein-ridden hands moved the walker close enough that Doug was confronted by a hidden twinkle in the rheumy eyes. "Seems to me like you got yourself a problem, son. And they do say a problem shared is a problem halved."

"Yeah, well… _they_ say a lot of things."

"Don't they, though? People love to yammer—you should spend a day in here. Seems to me though, ain't quite so good at listening. Well, 'cept the ones that can't get away quick enough, of course." Cackling up phlegm, he cleared his throat, eventually taking another shaky step forward. "So… least you got yourself something I ain't heard before. Why don't you spare an old man some boredom?"

Inwardly sighing, Doug considered it for a moment, even the act of talking about the matter feeling like a betrayal. Seeing no harm were he to keep it totally anonymous, he tentatively began, "I have this, uh, friend."

"You got a gal knocked up, huh?"

"What? Uh, no. I mean, I could—but…"

Another cackle rent the air. "I like you, son. What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Doug. Douglas Banks."

"You any relation to Elizabeth?"

"She's my mother."

"Well," the wreathing, near toothless smile somehow elongated the old man's jaw, Doug immediately reminded of Lily's favourite painting, _The Scream_. "Any relation of Elizabeth's is a friend of mine. Jake. Jake Sommersby."

Shaking the proffered hand, Doug was shocked by the prominence of the bones and its lack of substance, so different from the one that had encompassed his earlier. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"_Sir_ was for my daddy. I don't stand for all that nonsense. Jake is fine. '

Enough of the pleasantries though, carry on."

"I have this friend. He's in a tight spot. He used to know someone, not so long ago. Now that someone is in a position to help him and he—he really needs help. But this someone he knew, well, he won't even take his calls."

"He a good man?"

"Used to be."

"Don't exactly recall saying who I meant."

"Works both ways."

"So it's like that, huh?" Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Jake's faded blue eyes evaluated the younger man. "Not quite the whole story though, is it, son?"

"No, sir." At the warning glint, Doug hastily corrected, "No, Jake. This friend is—he knows something. Something that this other someone wouldn't want getting out."

"_He_ get someone knocked up?"

Chuckling, Doug shook his head, "No, no-one knocked anyone up, sorry to disappoint you."

Jake's skin somehow sagged lower, "Hmph, pity. So this secret… gonna ruin someone's life?"

"Maybe. Yes. I don't know for sure. But he can afford it. I mean—" embarrassed to have slipped up so easily, Doug quickly corrected himself, "he can afford to weather the storm."

"Can his family?"

"What do you mean?"

"Man looks after his family. He puts 'em first. Everything else—well, he lets nature take care of that."

"What about…?"

"Nothing more to it that that. Underneath the trappings, a man is a predator, Doug. You, with your TVs and your fancy toys, you've forgotten all that. Animals protect their own. It's instinct. Ain't no damned lion sitting out there fretting about this kind of crap."

"Isn't that why we are supposed to be different?"

"No, they just want you to _think_ that you are different. So they can sell you this!" Panting with the effort, Jake fished out a basic cell phone from his pocket. "Just look at this contraption—buttons so small my fingers can barely hit 'em and why do I need one anyways? You wanna speak to me? You come see me in person. This—this is just a sorry excuse. 'I am too busy to come see you this weekend, Daddy. Hope things are going well. Love you. Bye.' Don't even get me started on the texting. Pah!" Shaking his head in disgust, Jake shoved the phone into Doug's hands. "Here, you have it. Probably get more use out of it than I ever will."

"I can't take it, Mr Sommersby, or at least not for good. Though, as I find myself temporarily without one," Doug smiled sheepishly, "would you mind if I…?"

"Go ahead, got to be going anyways. Green jello day today. Can't be missing that." Rolling his eyes, he snorted sarcastically, tottering on his heels in an awkward sideways movement. "Be seeing you, Doug."

"Not if I see you first. And thanks, Jake… for everything."

"Your mama done you right, boy. Be sure to do the same in turn."

"Yes, sir," Doug whispered under his breath, his thumb already flying over the keypad.

As soon as Jake was sufficiently out of reach, he dialled the number, immediately greeted by an upbeat, "Directory Assistance. Which city?"

"New York."

The earlier flash hit again, the melodic, carefree laughter turning raucous. He let the image of his friends melt into his mother's vacant stare, heard Jake's rough timbre repeating his words. It proved all the motivation that was needed.

"Business or private?"

"I'd like the number for The New York Times."


End file.
